


Gluttony christened under neon lights.

by kodamakuroo



Series: sin, such a visceral drug. [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Burlesque Club, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Bodyguard, Drinking, Dubious Morality, M/M, Mafia NCT, Promiscuous Imagery, Public Hand Jobs, Red Light District
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25593895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kodamakuroo/pseuds/kodamakuroo
Summary: Itaewon's red light district — riddled with lust and grime, songbirds snuffed out by weed and cigarette smoke. Some would say it's a tragedy, so many ghosts meandering in one place — morbid figures wandering aimlessly, but what they don't see is the neon lights and lucid crimson burning lipstick marks into eachothers necks in a fit of belonging. And Ten relishes in it — he also relishes in the man whose eyes scold his naked body in dim lights, tongue warm against the inside of his mouth.And oh how he's going to bathe in it.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Series: sin, such a visceral drug. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868521
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	Gluttony christened under neon lights.

The smell of smog and guttural alcohol invaded highlighted orifices as crimson splayed glitter across the smooth curves of his body, mesh undershirt and black blazer soaking in the visceral heat. It moulds into a state of existing, numbness seeping through bones as he prances around stage, shoulder blades still searing in pain from a slap of a coworker a little too handsy — on the edge of something greater than musty little bars in the back of half rundown buildings in the midst of Itaewon's red light district — all to just throw smiles and pluck roses from middle aged men to then dance like a half deranged incubus on a stage no bigger than his one bedroom apartment. 

He starts slow; he always does — eyes alight as he catches a glimpse of burgundy hair mooning near the escape exit. First it's the stockings — sequinned embezzled silver gliding down shaved legs, leaning down so his stomach meets his knees whilst he plucks a note from a mans sweaty hand with pearly teeth. It's devious and sharklike, the way he works himself slowly on a stage where he is solely the focus — it does a great deal for his ego at times. Second is the shorts, they're thigh highs already — the type the old ladies in the suburbs would offer sideways glances at because they're just a _little_ too short for a sweltering hot summers day in the public of a park where children meet. He hooks his thumbs underneath the snug leather and jerks his hips forward as he sinks the rest of the way to the floor and let's his head be thrown back by clapping. He makes sure to let his legs do most of the work and he continues to sprawl on the floor — stomach shooting into his throat as he hauls himself back up left now in a small pair of satin panties. 

Ten lets himself go with the motions, small frame waltzing to the back of the stage only to ignore the glares of his fellow performers hidden behind black curtains and swing his body around a chair, calfs curling around the ebony wood — smirk bright and monstrous as he physically feels the burning on the right of his face — eyes he knows are only made to gaze at _him_. It's all too intoxicating and he makes sure to work himself faster, to keep the attention — keep the bloody grasp of calloused fingers around his oesophagus and not the girl leering at the bar, cocktail waving in the air and eyes hidden beneath black bangs. Arms loosing their shackles as the dark blazer reveals his sleeveless affairs adorned in body glitter and moist ego. It doesn't take long for the sheer top to disappear — lithe body decorated in black ink stark against white skin bathing in heat and red — he writhers on the object, letting his arms swing and drag across his freshly decorated frame, throwing calculated grins at men who look a little too drunk to realise that maybe they shouldn't be throwing themselves at a freshly graduated college student who suffers from a chronic nicotine addiction and uses a truck ton of concealer to obscure cat scratches that lace his arms in pigment. 

He supposes doing something like this was a bit of a natural progression, surrounded by important people from fourteen and then later getting dragged into drugs runs and even worse drug addicts, synastry of body and mind working to form intricate patterns cloaked an aching child from the true evils. He would still probably be considered by the general public to be on the wrong side of the fence — what with a man who works for the mafia no more than thirty feet away from him watching his every move — but Ten could never really bring himself to care, even more so now. Not when he can feel the calling of something more — he likes to consider this job temporary — his life, temporary. Even so, he still doesn't think he'd be able to escape certain people. 

The show finishes in a flourish of post-orgasmic bliss, all performative and staged but they don't need to know that — if he's honest, Ten doesn't think they care if they realise the faked ecstasy, he thinks they'd rather keep themselves locked up and caged in their small bottles of ignorance and booze than accept that maybe what they're paying for is a bit of a waste of time. His cheeks feel as flushed as the light seeping into his molten marrow as he gathers the clothes bundled on the floor in a swift duck, teeth on display as he sways his hips away back behind the curtain, bumping shoulders with a taller man, whose platinum hair looks all too fried to look decent — it's only then, when he's obscured that he can somewhat relax. 

He's never bothered after his shows, even if he really wants to be — all foreplay and acts building up into a swarm of heat pooling in his stomach clenching for release. He thinks that maybe tonight is the night, with the way Yukhei had been gazing at him; Ten isn't oblivious, he knows when someone is interested — disappointment clings to his rosy skin as he gets dressed — the silence of the room as suffocating as ever. There is still glitter ingrained between the hairs on his arms, only to scrub against the fluff of his cream cardigan, buttons loose and skin peaking through. The smokey eyeshadow and maroon lipstick is smudged in the yellow light of the empty dressing room and he only feels a little less exposed than usual. The cheers from stumbling men still cause the walls of the building and Ten is half sure he just saw pieces of the ceiling break off. 

Hooking his torn bag over his shoulder, Ten ducks out from the backroom and closer towards the fire exit where he last saw the younger — he's never usually there after his stages, always either across the other side of the club or gone all together — Yangyang says it's because he has a high rank — Ten thinks that he's a coward. His suspicions are only proved correct when the small hallway is clear, only the flickering light above proving to be the only source of life present. He's only spoken to Yukhei a handful of times, more when he enters the club than not — all in the throw of getting ready and half distracted small talk — he can't say he tries to swallow the sigh that breathes from his parted lips. 

"You're leaving?" It's rough and melodious — too musical to be in a club despite it blasting bases that causes the floor to thunder. Ten whips around, trying not to stumble in the buzzing silence of the corridor as Yukhei stands leant against the wall, arms crossed and face pensive.

"Yeah and you're still here." It sounds a little incredulous and Ten mocks himself for where all his confidence on stage has sulked off to. He swallows heart eyes as the man releases a small laugh at his expense.

"It is my job," Ten can tell he's not fully comfortable with Korean yet — accent stilted and muddled but he chooses to not comment and nod dumbly instead. 

"I'm aware. You're just usually never here when I leave."

"Maybe I was working up the courage to talk to you." Now that was new. Ten can feel his cheeks heat up but he can't help but smirk at the younger, whose hands are thumbing the leather of his clothing. 

"Courage? What, for little ol' me? You flatter me. Tell me more." He feels like he's poking a bear — albeit not a very dangerous bear if he's being honest, what with the fact that despite being in the literal mafia — Ten is pretty confident that Lucas is much less violent than he’s pegged to be.

"What if I show you more?" Electric spun webs with the nerves in Ten's spine, eyes wide and groin throbbing as Yukhei's voice dropped a number of octaves. 

"That's a little bold don't you think?" They were close now, Yukhei's strong arms encasing the smaller against the grimy wall, cold concrete slick beneath him. "I could take you here right now if I wanted to."

There was so much desire, so much longing nestled in the crook of the bodyguard's neck, it was almost endearing. Ten wanted to reach out and pluck the liquid simmering beneath his skin and lace it between his pearly teeth and nibble at the tanned skin until it blistered red. 

"Why don't you," the whisper was heady and quiet, Ten could feel his eyes lidding as Yukhei came closer to his space and slipped a hand beneath the sheer fabric of his cardigan — rubbing against the jut of his rib and breathing heavily. "No one will see us, and if they do they won't care — my shift is over, all they'll be looking at is the next piece of meat on that stage. I'm yours now."

Lust is such a beautiful word, Ten muses — such gluttony and greed and pride cocooned in spit slick mouths, riddled with the disease of sin it's so so addictive that no matter how many times he strips of stage, body molten and dipped in honey, sweat ridden and glorious — nothing, _nothing_ beats that of the taste of Yukhei's tongue spinning spirals in the rim of his mouth, breath cinnamon and vanilla and all too intoxicating for Ten's weak mind. He's nibbling at the plump blush of his bottom lip and he thinks he tastes blood — he can't tell, mind plagued with static and the basing boom of the music of, who Ten assumes is Jungwoo's stage, flooding his ears with scorching heat it's hard to not let his body crumple into a mess of marrow and viscera.

He moves his body so he's grasping at the muscles on Yukhei's shoulders, hoisting himself up and curling around the younger like a dehydrated cat. The wafting scent of vanilla is even stronger when wisps of burgundy hair tickles the bridge of his nose — wild and filled to the brim with lunacy, Ten plucks the belt from it's hinges and makes sure to beat it a few times before dropping the object to the ground. 

Leather is a difficult material and the fluff of his cardigan is riding up to reveal lithe muscles and watercolour tattoos embroidering his ivory skin is a bloom of colour and ebony. There's grunting and groaning as Ten's bony hand reaches down further, stroking and admiring. It doesn't take more than a few starter pumps for Yukhei to go rigid in his hold, not sure if it's from pleasure or anxiety — the younger draws back to lean against the wall, cock still in hand and eyes heavy. 

"It's okay," he breathes. "Just focus on me, I'm here." And that's all it takes before euphoria is creeping over the delicate flesh of his sternum and clavicle littering byzantium splotches of passion and sex. And rhythm has been instilled in place and he bobs up and down against the solid of Yukhei's chest, head thrown back and hand working away. There's something so thrilling about being so exposed — both hidden by nothing but a concrete wall that's half covered in decrepit band posters and cigarette ash — ecstasy overcoming both in a thrill of shock. He grips onto the younger elated; flames scolding him as he continues to cling but fear doesn't do anything do dim the selfish gluttony of **more more more** in the whites of his eyes, red and irritated as Yukhei bites just a little too hard and tears spring to his eyes all whilst the elder continues to tug and leave lazy strokes, teetering on the edge of becoming a tease. 

With unrefined tongue and splintering hold, Yukhei stutters as Ten picks up the pace, grin manic and demonic in the low light — Ten thinks he's gorgeous like this, holding onto his with arms the size of his torso yet withering in his grip and moaning the sweet scent of his name, breathless and throaty. 

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take long for him to finish — with cheeks flushed and beet red. _Cute_ , Ten thinks as he places a departing kiss on the tip of the younger's nose — unwrapping his sweaty body and letting himself lean against the wall again. 

"I hope I'll be seeing you more of my way out," Ten murmers, gaze now bright and filled with mirth — the way peonies bloom of the bodyguards cheeks almost causes his heart to stutter.

"Yeah. Yeah maybe you will..."

Greatness is still out there, a dream birthed from the heavens and crafted from stars and heavy alcohol — but maybe sticking around wouldn't be all that bad; at least for now.

**Author's Note:**

> bad alive mv is out and ten my man was naked so i thought i'd honour that with this quick oneshot hehe may make this part of a series who knows. also not edited so ignore any mistakes,, will edit in future.  
> my twitter is @mazokuyuta && cc solntserises !!


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